


Heaven's So Far Away

by EscaCorina



Category: Shatter Me Series - Tahereh Mafi
Genre: Angst, Emotional, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-08 14:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14107188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EscaCorina/pseuds/EscaCorina
Summary: Leila Warner, known only as Aaron Warner's ill mother, once had a past. She once lived without her power, without that debilitating pain. She was a young woman, kind and compassionate, not meant for the harshness of Paris Anderson's world. In this story, decades before anyone knew the name Juliette Ferrars, Leila Warner grapples with the realities of the Reestablishment, a power-hungry spouse, and a love that will save her as much as it might destroy her.





	1. Chapter 1

_ Two decades before Juliette Ferrars’s legacy… _

  
A shot rings out in the Quadrant, echoing around the walls that make up this suffocating courtyard. In the next heartbeat is a soft  _ thump  _ and clatter as a body falls, along with the weapon it had held not a moment before. 

His name was Bloom. Terrence Bloom, one of many Sector 45 soldiers. He was kind, gentle, and he often opened up the back passage so I could get some fresh air, some time away from, from

Well, from all this.

But, he’d stolen from the new Reestablishment, from the stores of Sector 45 in order to give his family some extra provisions, so they wouldn’t starve. He had a wife, a new baby, and his love cost him his life.

Theirs too now, I guess.

I stand in the middle of the Quadrant beside First Lieutenant Ward, eyes forward and on Bloom’s body as the blood flows from the wound in his head. It dyes the gray courtyard red. Soon the red will be brown, and that’ll be another addition to the stains marking the ground here.

The shooter holsters his pistol. It’s the CCR, the Chief Commander and Regent of Sector 45. Paris Anderson.

My husband.

His movements are smooth, easy, as if ending a life is just all in a day’s work. For him, it is, but despite all the lives he’s taken, bile still rises in my throat. I want to vomit. I want to scream. I want to- to

This is what we have to do, that’s what the Supreme Commander says. We must destroy everything in order to rebuild. You can’t fix the broken structure of a mansion little by little. It must all come down first, and then a new, stronger base can be established, one that will live on and on

And on and on and on and on

without faltering.

The eerie silence breaks as Paris speaks.

“Let that be a reminder to anyone who feels above the Reestablishment.” His voice booms, and I flinch inwardly, biting the inside of my cheek. Hard. “If you steal, you steal from all of Sector 45, and stealing from the hand that feeds you earns you a bullet through your fucking skull, and through every other skull that bears your name.”

In short: Terrence Bloom’s wife and newborn son are already dead.

The Supreme Commander isn’t here, and so it’s up to Paris to be judge, jury and executioner. And, by the smile on his face as he addresses his men, he revels in it. He’s anointed by the blood on his hands, and the power he wields is a sweet, intoxicating nectar from which to drink-

and he imbibes often.

After we married, and Paris became CCR, he forced me to come to these meetings, to walk the length of the base. I wear the standard military uniform, though I’m no soldier. I must stand stall, spine straight, chin up, eyes forward.

“You’re weak, Leila,” he told me. “This is for your own good, for the good of Sector 45. I can’t have a weak wife.” I remember his smile, one I thought could be genuine, once upon a time. But it’s evil is so familiar I don’t have to think twice anymore. “ _ I’ll make you strong.” _

Only a week ago, I was in Glenorchy, having tea with Evie. I’ll need to write to her soon, wish her blessings on her union. Many of us are marrying these days. It’s the easiest way to establish security.

That’s what Dad said, anyway. And I agree with him. The weak - like me - need someone strong to shield them. Paris is that someone for me.

I sigh through my nose, quietly, but not quietly enough. Out of the corner of my eye, First Lieutenant Ward turns his head in my direction. I hazard a glance back at him, and his brow is raised. I take a deep breath and suck up the pity I’m feeling. Glenorchy will always be there, and I’ll visit again soon, I know.

For now, I’ll settle for my home on Sycamore. It’s not far from the base, but until the Supreme Commander comes back, Paris and I will stay right here at the headquarters.

The moment everyone’s dismissed, I turn my back on Ward, Paris, all of them and walk briskly out, going where? I don’t know.

I don’t know until the concrete gives way to gravel gives way to soft sand. I lift my head and gaze out at the dark water. If I focus on the horizon, everything around me falls away and it’s just me and the ocean. It’s just a plane ride, a ship’s journey, to Glenorchy from this point.

The waves gently crash, and the water runs over my military-grade boots. My eyes slowly close as I’m lulled into a fragile sense of peace. The ocean does that to you - it whispers softly, hums you a lullaby, wraps you up in salty, tangy hug where you’re neither warm nor cool,

just safe.

Safe.

I can’t remember the last time I truly felt safe.

“Mrs. Anderson.”

My eyes flutter open and I glance over my shoulder. First Lieutenant Ward heads to me, a purpose in his gaze and his walk. A few other soldiers follow ten paces behind him and stop, letting him continue on to me. I turn back to the ocean when he’s beside me.

“Warner,” I say, my voice a whisper.

“Pardon?” He clasps his hands behind him.

“Ms. Warner,” I repeat. I swallow. “I never took Paris’s name. Not officially.”

“I never knew.”

I shrug. “It’s easier this way.” That’s not a lie. It’s so much easier, on my conscience, to hold onto my name, the name of my dear father. “Do you need something?” I ask him, after a moment.

“It’s not safe to wander the sector alone, especially being the wife of the CCR,” he responds in a neutral tone. “You’re a walking target.”

“Then you should give me a wide berth, or I’ll bring you down with me,” I bite back, a little harsher than I intended. I clear my throat. “I mean…”

“I know what you mean, Ms. Warner.” He actually smiles.

First Lieutenant Ward, like most soldiers, wears a harsh expression at all times. His face is all angles, and sometimes I think he could cut a diamond with his jawline. His hair is raven black, short on top and shaved on the sides. And, like most soldiers, he wears the scars of a war I feel we’ve been fighting forever. Yet,

Yet when he smiles, his gray eyes light up, the harshness softens, and a couple dimples appear on his cheeks. When he smiles, he’s all dimples. 

“But I don’t wear this uniform so I can turn tail and run at the first sign of danger,” he continues. “One of my primary duties is to protect.”

“By my husband’s orders,” I sigh.

“Does it matter?” Is that offense I sense in his tone? I see his smile, and then I relax.

“It always matters,” I smile back, though it’s a weak effort. “If someone’s life ends on my account, it’s no small thing. Not even if it were your life, First Lieutenant. Not even if you were ordered to.”

“You’ve got a soft heart, Ms. Warner.” By the way he says it, I don’t know if he means it to be a good or a bad thing. I’ll take the former.

“Paris says it makes me weak.”

“Kindness isn’t weakness,” he counters, and I sense the smile without having to look. The ocean holds my gaze.

“It’s not strength either.” The words feel robotic, automatic. Paris has done well into drilling this into my head. I am not strong, I am kind. I am weak. I can’t stand blood, death, suffering...I will not survive this new world we’re making, not without him.

“Then what is strength, Ms. Warner,” Ward asks. He’s not mocking me, at least.

“Power.” It’s easy to regurgitate Paris’s words. Easier than to admit to my own heart and crumple right on the sand in fear and grief. I see Terrence Bloom’s face, the fear in his eyes the moment he realized it was over. I can almost hear him saying his wife’s name, a prayer on his lips. “Without power, we’re nothing.”

“You might make a soldier yet.”

I look at Ward, and he’s no longer smiling. The First Lieutenant is back, the man with dimples gone. “Why are you here?”

“Commander Anderson has requested your presence.”

“Requested?” I murmur.

“Ordered,” he amends. 

I nod and turn on my heel to head back to base. I hear Ward follow as he commands his group to head back as well. With each step I get closer to the base, and my heart sinks further and further in my chest until I feel like I can’t breathe. 

Ward leads me now, and we march all the way to Paris’s office. Ward knocks, then steps aside as I enter. Paris is behind his desk, and at my arrival he stands and gives me a familiar smile.

“Close the door, Ward,” he commands, and a moment later I hear a soft click behind me.

Paris holds out his hand to me.

“Come here, Leila.”


	2. Chapter 2

He calls to me like I’m a dog, another one of his men he can push around. I suppose he can push me around since I let him, because it’s easier to give in than it is to fight back, or to argue, or

“Leila.”

The first time he called, his voice was soft. Now there’s an edge, a warning. I step forward, up to his desk, and I take his hand without flinching. The first time I flinched, he twisted my arm so hard I thought it would break.

Thankfully, these days, he doesn’t leave too many bruises on me. I’ve learned to hide, to avoid him when something sets him off, to make myself scarce when he drinks. He’s taken up drinking a lot in the recent year, and I have a feeling it’s not going away anytime soon.

He grips my hand tightly. “Where did you run off to after the meeting?”

“The shore.” I don’t bother lying about it, not something so trivial like this. “I thought a walk would be good-”

“I didn’t ask why, and I don’t care.” He’s squeezing my hand tighter, and I feel my circulation being cut off. “You don’t make a fool of me by running away. You are not dismissed until I dismiss you. Is that clear?”

God, my hand hurts- “Yes, Paris.”

“Yes, what?” His voice is hard steel.

“Yes...sir,” I say, realizing too late my mistake.

“You are never to use my name, ever. Is that fucking clear?”

I want to run, I want to scream, I want -

“Yes, sir,” I speak as steadily as possible, but it’s difficult with the pain.

“Good.” Finally, he releases me, and I quickly pull my hand back and hold it against my chest, rubbing feeling back into it. “You’re not to leave the premises until I come back.”

At that, I look at him in surprise. He’s leaving too? For how long? But I don’t dare ask. I don’t want to know. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I won’t leave.” With him gone, there’s no reason for me to leave. I think I already feel the tension dissipating from my shoulders. I’ll be free, for at least the rest of the day. “I promise.”

He sits back down, and I’m left standing there. When I don’t move, he looks up, gives a sneer and waves toward the door. “Get out.”

I don’t wait another moment before I’m out the door, closing it quickly behind me. I try not to slam it - Paris hates that. I pay no attention to whoever was waiting outside the office as I hurry down the corridors, nearly taking a wrong turn as I head to the room I’ve been allowed. It’s a tad more spacious than the barracks, and I have my own bathroom.

The moment I’m inside I lean back against the door and it shuts loudly. My knees weaken and I slide down to the floor, breathing heavily. I’m not out of breath- my heart beats wildly from the anxiety of facing down Paris.

When did I get here? In this time and place, this moment? I swear it was just yesterday I was at the Senators’ Gala, toasting to another good year with Evie and Max. We were all just children, privileged beyond belief, naive…

We’re still children. We have no idea what we’re doing. These thoughts are ones I keep to myself day in and day out. Paris has no idea how big this will all become, how it will get out of hand. Power is strength.

But power can also be stripped away. It only takes a bullet. Just one.

I curl up into myself as my heart races. I know I should sit on a chair, put my head between my knees- this is all rational and logical, but right now, I can’t breathe. It just takes one damn bullet for everything to stop, for this all to have been for nothing and there’s nothing I can do because I’m so scared, so damn scared

“Ms. Warner!” comes a muffled voice. My senses sharpen the slightest bit, and I realize the voice isn’t muffled at all. It’s shouting, and there’s pounding on the door. I can’t think, my tongue is heavy in my mouth, my hands feel numb,

“Ms. Warner, if you don’t respond or make some sign that you’re alright, I’m breaking down this door.” The same voice as before.

I swallow many times, but my throat’s so dry it’s like gulping down cotton balls. I try again, and manage a word: “B-behind…”

“What?” The pounding has stopped.

I need to get ahold of myself. Easier said than done. “B-behind door...I’m behind the door.” My teeth chatter. I’m freezing. “Please- please don’t break it down.” Every word is a struggle.

“You’re behind the door?”

Why so many questions? “Yes.” Please stop talking.

“Can you unlock it?” The voice is gentler now, not so demanding.

“N-no…” The thought of sitting up enough to shift the lock is unbearable, and my shakes worsen.

“Ms. Warner, what’s happening? What’s going on?”

Paris won’t let me have my medicine, that’s what. But I don’t say it- I can’t. Too many words now. “P-panic at-attack.” It’s so cold in here.

There’s no immediate response. I’m gasping, unable to catch the breath that’s so close yet so far away. I’m about to lose myself in the panic, to let it wash over me and take me to that dark place until I pass out, when

“Leila, you’re not alone.”

I force my eyes to open a crack.

“Listen to my voice. Focus on it.” The voice is calmer than I’ve ever felt. “The air is there, it’s all around you. Breathe it in, slowly.”

Breathe. Breathe. I try to picture the air, as if it’s a tangible thing. I’m gasping, gulping, but I stop, force myself to take a moment. I hold it in until I have to gasp again, but this time I take the air in as slowly as I can. I’m shaky, and it takes many, many tries for me to get it right.

“Breathe in and out, slowly. Focus on that, the air coming into your body and going out.”

The dizziness fades as my lungs get the proper air I’ve been depriving them,

“Leila?”

I swallow, and it’s not so difficult. “Y-yes?”

“Can you sit up?”

My arms shake badly as I uncurl and push up on my elbows. I pause many times, catching my breath from the effort. My body hurts all over. My neck aches, and I know it’ll be stiff for awhile. Still, I look at the door and reach up a shaking hand to unlock it. The moment the deed is done, I collapse and press my cheek to the floor. In the same instant, the door opens and bumps against my legs softly.

Strong arms circle around mine and help me to my feet. My head swims, my vision’s a bit blurred, but I’m able to focus on the face of First Lieutenant Ward. I meet his gaze, stare into his gray eyes. They’re beautiful, not so intense. Not like Paris’s eyes, that piercing, ice cold blue. No, Ward’s eyes are the gray of a warm, rainy day.

Before I realize it, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, a blanket around me. I absently watch as Ward goes in and out of the room, coming back with a glass of water and something that looks faintly like a pill.

“Drink.” It’s a command, but he says it without any cruelty. 

I drink, washing down the pill. I finish the rest of the water, and Ward takes the empty glass from me. I can breathe. I can think. The chill has faded away.

“Thank you,” I croak. “Thank you for- for not-” For not yelling, for not abandoning me, for not calling me weak and useless.

Ward pulls up a chair and sits in front of me, leaving enough space for me to breathe. I’m grateful for that as well. “It’s not the right medicine, but it’s something,” he murmurs, studying me. Does he see how weak I am?

“This hasn’t happened in awhile,” I whisper. I feel the need to explain myself, to talk through the humiliation coursing through me. He’d seen me at my lowest. Paris warned me about hiding this part of me, of never allowing another soul to know of my weakness.

Ward merely watches me.

I continue. “I usually had medicine, in the past, but ever since-” I bite my lip, pull the blanket around me tighter. “Please don’t tell Paris.” The First Lieutenant’s main duty was to report back to my husband.

Ward shakes his head. “I won’t.”

Blinking rapidly, I meet his gaze. “...Promise?”

“I promise you.” He nods.

I nod in return, and then I hang my head and let the tears fall freely.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Ev, _

_ I’m counting down the days until our next trip to Glenorchy. Paris has been gone often, now that his boss is back. I guess that means I’ve had more time for myself, and so I’ve been staying home, making breakfast and lunch for my father. We don’t say much to each other, but his presence is enough. I like the silence between us while we wash dishes together… _

_ Sorry for the sentimentality, I should be keeping these correspondences short. We’re all in good health here in 45. Please write me soon. Are the mountains still beautiful? _

 

_ All my love, _

_ Lei _

  
I fold up the small letter and pocket it. I’ll have it sent out later at the base, where I know it will reach its destination. Mail doesn’t run so well in the Compounds and regular neighborhoods in 45...not like it used to, before all of this. 

 

With a sigh, I glance at the many picture sitting atop my desk. Most of them are of myself, when I was small and still carefree, and the others are of Paris and I. The one nearest to me is from our wedding. We almost look happy, relaxed. That seems like a lifetime ago, when Paris was good. Well, when he’d still had the heart to fake it. If he’d ever had a heart, it’s gone now. 

I brush my fingers along the frame, let a small sliver of wistfulness go through me, then turn my attention to what’s outside my bedroom window. When I’ve got this small bit of freedom, the sky almost looks blue. 

“Leila.”

My father stands in the door, and I hadn’t even heard it open. He’s got that same solemn, watery look as usual, but rarely is he sad. Sometimes I don’t know whether to feel safer to his impassive expressions, or should I be frightened?

“Yes?” I stand, placing my pen back in its designated drawer.

“We’re nearly out of rations. You need to fetch more,” He speaks flat, without much emotion. He would make a good butler, for how much he doesn’t pry or care much about anything at all besides life’s necessities. He’s quick and quiet too.

His request isn’t new, but there are moments I cling to the hope that he’ll say, “Actually, dear, I thought we could read together, or listen to the records.” And each time, I’m sorely, sorely disappointed.

The smile I give him is surely weak, but I make the effort anyway. “Of course. I’ll get that straightaway.”

His response is a short nod. Then he’s gone, to do whatever it is he does when he’s not making requests of me. I hope he stays out of trouble.

I decide against changing into my uniform. I like my clothes, but I opt for the sturdy boots rather than my favorite pair of slippers. The last thing I want is to step on something foul and get sick when medicine is growing more and more scarce. I don’t want someone else to go without because I made a stupid mistake.

It’s warm as I step outside, shiny black military boots mismatched with my light sundress and shawl.

\-----------------

There’s always a long line for rations in the market square. I’ve a feeling one day there won’t be lines at all. For now, I’m able to skip the wait. My conscience eats at me as I use my higher level clearance to go to the front. The soldiers distributing the goods recognize me immediately, nodding to me as they hand me a large, heavy box.

No one asks to aid me - we all know the drill. Take what you can carry, or you don’t deserve it. Someone stronger, better, will take it.

I grip the box tightly and make my way back to Sycamore. It’s a long walk, but I hate driving, and the majority of vehicles have already been taken by the Reestablishment to be used by our soldiers.

As I walk back, I do my best to avoid the faces of those stuck in line, those that have been moved to the Compounds, or worse. The nicer houses are now reserved for important members of 45, members like myself and my father. If Paris wasn’t CCR, and if we weren’t married, I could be there…

The moment I’m able, I duck into the familiar alley I take as a shortcut. It’s creepy, with most of the sun blocked out, but I keep my eyes forward as I hurry toward the end.

Just as I’m getting closer, two shadowy figures step into my path. They’re wearing the helmets of Reestablishment soldiers, but their ragged clothes and lack of Reestablishment emblems on their jackets is enough to give them away.

“Hand over the box, pretty, and we’ll let you go.” The one on the left speaks, and something glints in his hand. Probably a knife.

Instinctively, I step back and grip the box tighter. “...No.”

They laugh, the sound muffled. “Don’t think we’ll go easy on you ‘cause you’re a lady.”

I know that. When it comes to hunger, to starvation, it doesn’t matter who’s in your way. Man, woman, child...The rational thing to do would be to hand over the box. But Father needs this, and if Paris finds out I gave up like this-

“I said no,” I repeat, trying to sound as firm and confident as possible. I feel like a flea. “If you would just wait in the rations line like everyone else-”

I grunt as I’m suddenly slammed against one of the buildings that make up the alley, the box falling from my hands. The sound of it hitting the ground echoes loudly. I struggle against the body holding me back. I need that box. If they take it, I’ll,

My teeth sink into my attacker’s arm, and while he howls, I duck down and make a grab for the box. His friend is faster, and he pushes me down into the muck. I yelp in surprise and frustration, and as I’m scrambling to my feet, the roar of an engine causes all three of us to freeze.

The Reestablishment emblem is glossy, painted along the side of one of the standard AFVs used in Sector 45. The vehicle has stopped right by us, and then soldiers emerge from within, rifles at the ready, trained on my attackers.

“Ms. Warner?” One of them calls. Ward.

“I’m okay,” I call back, finally pushing myself to my feet. As I’m retrieving my rations, one of my masked attackers makes a grab for the box. Just as quickly, a shot rings out and he’s down.

“Move and you’re dead too,” one of the soldiers shouts to the remaining thief.

First Lieutenant Ward approaches, offering to take the rations box.

“It’s alright. I’ve got it,” I insist, stubborn now. I won’t allow anyone to take this from me. I was tasked with its retrieval, and that’s what I’m going to do. “But thank you.”

“You shouldn’t be wandering the sector alone,” he says as we head into the vehicle. Right when Ward is about to close the door, I hear another gunshot. That thief never had a chance, not when the Supreme’s soldiers showed up.

“Was that necessary?” I whisper, my knuckles growing sore from gripping my rations so hard.

Ward is quiet as he waits for the other soldiers, and then he revs the engine. We’re rumbling down along the street when he speaks. “If we hadn’t, someone else would have. Do you think you’re the first person they’ve stolen from?”

I swallow, knowing the truth of it.

“Terrence Bloom’s death should be answer enough about the Reestablishment’s view on stealing,” he continues, his gaze forward on the road ahead.

The mention of that name opens up a fresh wound I thought had been healing. The guilt and sorrow I carry, that I’ve carried for weeks since his death, it keeps me up most nights. I see his blood pooling in my dreams.

“What are we fighting for, First Lieutenant?” I ask softly, hugging the box on my lap.

“A better world, Ms. Warner.” That’s the automatic, Reestablishment response. We’re going to save the world, but first we must break it down in order to build it back up again.

“How can it be better if we take more lives than we save?” My voice has become a harsh whisper, and I hate how weak I sound.

He doesn’t answer, and we don’t speak the rest of the way to my house on Sycamore. Ward helps me down, but instead of going back and driving off, he tells his men to stay put a moment before he follows me inside. I don’t question it - he’s a lieutenant, after all, and he reports directly to my husband.

My father isn’t in sight, and so I go right to the kitchen to unpack the box of rations. Ward puts it upon himself to help, though I haven’t told him where everything goes.

“I’m grateful for your help back in the alley, but you don’t have to stay.” I glance at him.

He meets my gaze, and his expression is…I can’t tell, but it’s like he’s looking right through me, and so I have to look away.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, out there,” he says, quiet. The mask he wears as a soldier is gone, and the dim light in the house has softened his features. “And you’re right.”

I swallow, feeling too anxious to meet his eyes at the moment. I continue to sort the rations.

He continues, just as softly as before. “What kind of world are we saving if we don’t try to save who’s already in it?”

Now I’m staring at him, shocked that he’d say something that’s close to treason nowadays. My mouth moves, but no words come out for a moment or two until I get my thoughts together. “...What kind of world do you want, Ward?”

He smiles a bit. “One that has you in it.”


	4. Chapter 4

_ One that has you in it.  _ I stop rummaging through the rations box and stare at him. Ward’s staring back, his gaze steady, easy smile gone, replaced by an expression I don’t allow myself to discern. I won’t examine any of these emotions, not if I know what’s good for me, for us both. 

“Well, I’m in it, so I guess you’ve got what you want,” I murmur, breaking eye contact. If I stare any longer, I might acknowledge the erratic thumping in my chest.

“I intend to keep it that way,” he says, just as softly, as he reaches over and takes a few canned vegetables to place them in the cabinets above us, right where they belong, between the rice and flour. He must’ve been paying attention to my strange organizational system. It’s not really organized at all, honestly.

Yet, Ward has no trouble putting the rest of the rations away. I can’t help but watch, fascinated by this soldier acting so domestic. I’m used to seeing him at the Quadrant, barking orders when Paris is off doing his own duties. Ward and his men constantly train, to the point where I’ve questioned whether they get any sleep. I imagine he sleeps lightly, if at all, his hand on the gun that’s surely resting beside his pillow.

He doesn’t wear his headgear like the other soldiers, as if he’s daring someone to take him out. I notice he’s got a white scar under his ear that runs halfway along his jaw. Was it a surprise attack? An accident with a razor? My eyes roam, following the scar to a black tip peeking out from under his collar. Must be the remnants of a tattoo, I suspect.

As I lift my gaze, I freeze. He’s staring at me again, and my face grows uncomfortably warm. How long have I been here, gaping like a foolish little girl?

“Uh, wh-” I clear my throat quickly. “Your scar.” Somehow the words are lost on me. I can’t speak like a regular human being. “What happened?”

His lips twitch the slightest bit, as if he’s holding back a smile. “Which one?”

It’s then that I realize his face bears many scars that I’m just now seeing. My ears burn this time as I take in the scar above his right brow, then small one along the bridge of his nose, and one that tugs on the corner of his lips. “...All of them?” I manage, voice cracking from embarrassment.

Ward nearly laughs, but then he points to his nose. “Broken against a bat.” His brow. “Knife training.” His lips. “A fist with steel, pointed knuckles.” Then he brushes his thumb along his stubbled jaw, from his ear to his chin. “Ex-girlfriend.”

My eyes widen. An ex did that to him? “...before or after your relationship?”

Now he laughs, and his dimples magically appear. “After.”

I wince. “That bad?”

“She certainly thought so.” He speaks without any bitterness or venom, like someone who’s moved on from the past, grown from it.

I guess I’m fortunate Paris hasn’t left any permanent marks on me. For that I’m grateful, every day. The bruises fade, leaving me no long-term reminders.

“Did it hurt?” That’s a stupid question, and my face flames again in shame at my stupidity. Of course it hurt. Every single one of his injuries now marked upon his skin must’ve hurt.

He shrugs, leaning back against the sink counter, arms crossed lightly.

“Sure. Does it hurt when he hits you?” 

I flinch like he’s dealt me a blow, and I feel it through my body. “I think it’s time you left.” He shouldn’t be here. He should be at the base, taking orders from Paris. 

“You don’t deserve them. Not a single one,” he continues, still leaning against the counter. “Nothing you do could ever be deserving of that treatment. No one deserves abuse from someone who’s supposed to protect them and love them. If he really loved you-”

“I don’t care if he doesn’t love me!” I shout, at last finding my voice. My hands are clenched into fists so hard my palms sting. I ignore the pain. “I don’t give a damn if he wants me, or if he wants me dead. I. Don’t. Care.” There, I’ve said it. And, instead of feeling like breaking down, I can breathe more easily. I thought I’d be heartbroken, but I’m glad the truth is out. “It doesn’t matter to me, and it sure as hell shouldn’t matter to you. Now get out.” I’m tired, so tired.

Ward has taken my reprimand in stride. He didn’t flinch, or wince, or change his expression in any way, as if my words had no effect. I’m so irritated I want to yell at him more, to get past that armor of nothingness he wears so well.

Silently, he nods and heads toward the back door that leads from the kitchen to the rest of Sector 45. I follow him, silent as well, ready to shut the door behind him. Before I can, he speaks.

“Her name’s Kent.”

I almost miss it. “What?”

“The reason why Anderson leaves base frequently. Her name’s Kent, and she lives in the Compounds.” Then he’s gone, heading down the way to the military truck waiting for him.


	5. Chapter 5

I find myself walking along the shore again. I slipped out of the base before dawn, before any of the soldiers rose. Paris had come to bed drunk last night, and so I know it’ll be awhile before he rises. When he’s drunk, he’s either violent, or he puts on a gentle, caring act that used to work in the beginning. Now I lock myself in the bathroom, blocking out the sound of his yelling until he finally passes out. 

I wondered, as he screamed and threatened me, if he’d been with that woman. The one named Kent. He’d smelt different, but it hadn’t been from the strong drink. I know that scent well by now. Whenever he goes off base, I can’t help but think he’s with her.

I shouldn’t care. 

I don’t care. I really don’t.

Except-

If he’s moved on, then why won’t he let me go?

I kick a smooth pebble, and it tumbles into the smelly water. The pollution grows worse every day, every hour, every moment we wake and hope for a better tomorrow. But the trees have stopped becoming green, there’s less and less grass, and the last time I saw a white cloud, I swear I was in grade school.

From this spot, in the dawn, as the sun peeks up from the horizon, I pretend I’m the last person on Earth. I have unlimited freedom - I can do what I want, say whatever truth I feel, be who I really am...who am I, really? Paris’s wife, father’s daughter, a sheep among the wolves- my name is Leila Warner, but that has little meaning to me these days.

I turn from the water. It’s always so tempting to just strip down and jump into the waves. But there are so many chemicals, so much waste, that my skin would most likely fall away the moment I went under.

Pulling my hood up over my head, I make my way back to Sycamore. As I’m weaving through the dark, slum areas, taking the shortcuts I’ve been warned away from, I hear the faint sound of shouting. I should ignore it. I should continue on my way, but if someone innocent is in trouble, as I have been, I don’t want to have abandoned them when I could have helped. The guilt would eat at me for the rest of my days.

I slow down as the shouting grows louder the nearer I get. My back is pressed up against the rough stone of an old office building that’s now in shambles and is used by many who’ve lost their homes to fighting, protests, or the Reestablishment.

“Hands against the wall!” I hear someone shout, and as I peek around the corner just enough to see without being spotted, I see four ragged people, including a child, forced against the rusted metal of what was once a parking garage door. Five soldiers have rifles trained on them, while another stands behind them, hands clasped behind his back. The leader.

“Treason committed against the Reestablishment is punishable by death,” speaks the leader. I’d know that voice anywhere. It’s Ward. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks, ever since he’d revealed Paris’s infidelity. While he never failed to say “Good morning” or  retrieve me if Paris called for my presence, I still have not given him a single word.

I stare, eyes wide, as he lists the trespasses of these poor people. Treason translates to anything done to survive, whether it be stealing a scrap of food or protesting out in the streets.

“By order of the Reestablishment, you are to be executed,” Ward says in so much authority it’s frightening. He lifts his hand, and when he closes his fingers into a fist, his soldiers fire upon the innocents.

I gasp, a small cry coming from my lips before I clamp both hands over my mouth to stifle the sound.

Ward’s head jerks in my direction, and our eyes meet. His eyes are steely, hard in the way Paris’s get when he’s in Commander mode. He’s not that easy, smiling man who’d helped me from thieves, who’d talked me through my panic attack and wrapped me up in warmth and reassurances. Ward is a soldier, a monster, bound to the Reestablishment, and I’d nearly forgotten.

The few seconds that pass feel like an eternity, and then I’m running away, as fast as my body will take me. The city is a maze I know. I’ve watched it crumble bit by bit, these familiar streets. I’ve watched it all go up in flame, one bombing at a time.

I run run run fast and far I can’t stop not even if my lungs want to burst not even if my legs threaten to buckle. I will not stop until I’m sure.

When I am sure, I slow and brace myself back against an abandoned shack near the Compounds. I’m gasping for air, stale air, the only air the world has left, and it stings worse than Paris’s palm.

A crunch nearby startles me, and I glance to my left to see Ward. He’s found me, and I’ve no more energy to run. With a shaking hand, I reach into my jacket, fumbling for the small pistol Paris has made me carry recently.

I point it right at him, trying to steady my hands. “S-Stay back!” I shout, voice hoarse. I’m panting, unable to catch my breath.

Ward stops the moment the gun is out. He stares at me, intense, quiet.

“Put the gun down, Ms. Warner,” he says calmly, taking a step forward. How can he be so calm?

“I said don’t move!” I scream again, feeling the sting of tears in my eyes. “Don’t fucking move any closer, or I will shoot!”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you.” Still so calm.

“You just murdered innocent, unarmed people!” Now I’m crying. “A child, Ward!”

“Put. The. Gun. Down.”

I will not take any orders from him. I am not one of his soldiers. I shake my head, shaking worse, though I keep the gun trained on him. 

He takes another step, and I pull the trigger.

But nothing happens. I blink in confusion.

“The safety’s on,” he says.

The moment I glance away from him to check the gun, to see what he means, he’s suddenly there and the pistol’s being yanked from my weak grip. He tosses it aside and pushes me up against the side of the abandoned house.

I struggle, throwing my fists, and when he’s trapped my hands against the wall, I kick with all my might. But his body is pressed against mine, his thighs hard against me, keeping me immobile.

I’m not done fighting, and with one last effort I headbutt him the moment he’s moved his face close enough. I hear a satisfying crack, and Ward shouts.

“SHIT!” He loosens his hold on me the slightest bit, but as I make a break, he regains himself and pushes me against the wall again. “Damn it, Leila, stop!” He shouts.

Blood runs from his nose over his lips, while tears stream from my eyes down my cheeks. We stare each other down, willing the other to give in. I’m not a fool - I know he has the advantage over me, but at least I’ve broken his nose.

“You’re just like all the rest!” I cry, angry and frustrated and heartbroken. “You’re just another monster, like Paris! You don’t care about this world, about what’s right, about what’s good! Destroy, destroy, destroy, that’s all you know! Kill, kill, kill! And for what?” I’m gasping now, choking on my tears and my words. “God, I just want it all to stop! The fighting, the killing, the agony. I wish it could all go away. I wish I could take all the pain away, I wish I could hold it all inside myself.” I hang my head, defeated. “I would hold it all, I would suffer, if only it meant the world wouldn’t have to.” My voice is a near whisper.

“No one person can hold that much pain.” Ward’s voice is soft, and I hear him cough on some blood.

“I could,” I insist. “I could take any amount of pain.” My whole life’s been one pain after another, unending. I peek up at him, then regret it. “How could you?” I whisper.

He shakes his head, his handsome face marred by a bruised and bleeding nose. He looks even more frightening, more of a hardened soldier. “It’s a war, sweetheart.”

“They weren’t shooting at you. They didn’t have a chance.” I’ve stopped struggling, and his grip loosens. This time I don’t pull away. “We’re not at war yet.” It was just protesting, unrest.

“It’s going to get worse, much worse, before it gets better, if it ever does.” Ward licks the blood from his lips, and it’s quickly replaced by more dripping from his nose.

Silence hangs between us as we pant, cooling down from our struggle. My tears have stopped, but he’s still bleeding. “Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Like hellfire,” he answers simply, cracking a small, bloody smile.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I feel that way, for a monster. “You frightened me.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that.”

“Why did you chase me?”

“Why did you run?”

I pause. “You saw me.”

“I did.”

“I thought you’d shoot me too.”

“I’d never do that.”

I swallow, remembering how I held him at gunpoint. “I would have shot you.”

“I know. I would’ve deserved it.”

“You don’t deserve pain, Ward.”

“Neither do you, Leila.”


	6. Chapter 6

We’re at the nearest clinic in town, one of few that offer free services nowadays. Well, not exactly free- Ward’s military clearance allows him to skip any wait and waives all fees. But, even without his status, the clinic wouldn’t charge that much. Not as much as the good hospitals. So many have closed that the remaining ones have jacked up their prices so high you’d be in debt for the rest of your life, and at least ten lifetimes after. 

I flinch as the physician resets Ward’s broken nose. I apologized to him all the way up until this point. The guilt courses through me unrelentingly, no matter how many times he’s told me that it’s alright, that he’s had much worse, that he deserves more than a broken nose for what he’s done in order to prove himself as a soldier.

More blood spills from his nose, and the physician hands Ward a handful of gauze to hold against his face to staunch the flow. I can only watch in silent horror. So much blood spilled today…

“Stop.”

I lift my eyes to meet Ward’s gaze. He’s staring at me, hand against his nose to hold up the gauze. He’s got that look about him.

“I’m not doing anything,” I murmur, tugging on the hood of my jacket. I’ve kept it up, to hide from prying eyes, to hide my face, which is no doubt bright red from shame.

“You’re still beating yourself up over this. Dont,” he says simply, voice muffled a bit.

“Your face- it’s my fault-” I look away.

“Don’t.” His voice is more forceful this time.

And for some reason, this irritates me. I’ve been told to do or not do a lot of things, by a lot of people, mostly Paris and my father, but this time a bit of that pent up anger has surfaced, and I turn it on Ward.

“Don’t tell me how to feel or not feel, Ward,” I retort, and it sounds more like a hiss than anything else. “If I want to worry, I’ll worry. If I want to feel guilty, I’ll feel guilty. Most of the time I don’t even  _ want  _ to, but that’s how emotions work. They’re irrational, they can’t be easily swayed, especially not when your thoughts are spiraling to the worst case scenarios all the damn time!” My breathing’s become erratic now. “I wish I could be a good soldier and just stop, just force myself to not feel, but I can’t, alright? I’m not some numb robot who can blink at the sight of death and then turn from it. I can’t hurt someone and feel justified for causing pain, no matter what the circumstances are. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I don’t want to cause more suffering when it’s happening all around us. So just. Lay. Off. Ward.”

By the end of it, I’m panting, struggling to breathe, feeling like this could possibly be another attack. But really, I haven’t spoken that much in so long, it’s made me light-headed. Perhaps that’s the adrenaline of finally giving someone a piece of my mind.

I peek at Ward, and he’s still staring. Instead of intensity in his gaze, there’s weariness to it. And, because I can’t help myself, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

The physician has gone, most likely to see another patient. We’re alone, and I stand awkwardly away from the medical bed, where Ward is perched on the edge. I guess the exhaustion and the horror of this morning comes crashing down, for before I realize it, my body’s shaking and my eyes are broken faucets, leaking so many tears that catch on Ward’s shoulder. 

He’s got his arm around me, holding me gently as I weep against him, emptying myself of all the fear, the frustration, and the futility of every day that is my life here in Calif- Sector 45.

I cry for myself, for those innocent people, for that child, and for Ward. I cry for us all, for who we were, who we could’ve been, and what we might become in the future, all because our world is dying. Because of us. Because we were too late, and now we’re clinging to whatever hope we can, even if it’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“This was supposed to be temporary,” I whisper against his shoulder. “It’s not always going to be like this, is it?”

Ward is quiet, his hand rubbing gentle circles along my back. When he’s speaks, he’s just as solemn, as tired. “No, it’s not...it’s going to get worse.”

He’s always saying that, but now I think he might be right. “We still have food,” I murmur, clinging to that lifeline of hope, that invisible thread. “We still have schools, hospitals, television…” We still have a world I recognize from my childhood. We don’t have to lose it.

“It’s all temporary.”

“How? We have so much. How can we just lose it?” I’m clutching at his jacket.

“It won’t happen immediately. That’s how empires fall- slowly, and then in one big heap when we’re too busy ignoring it and telling ourselves it’ll get better one day,” he says softly. “There are rumors...the change might not happen this year, or the next, maybe not ten years from now, but it  _ will  _ happen, and then there’s no going back.”

The thought that all the beauty I’ve ever known could be gone for good is too much. It’s unimaginable. “What do we do?” I whisper, pulling back to look at him and wipe at my eyes.

He pulls the gauze away and gives me a thoughtful look. A lifetime of emotions passes over his face. He holds an infinite amount of weariness in his gaze.

He sighs. “Hold on to your humanity.”


	7. Chapter 7

Paris snores beside me in bed. He came to our room in high spirits, and it had scared me more than if he’d walked in barking orders. He’d kissed me, had wanted more, but I- I could not. I can’t. Not anymore. 

If it had been months earlier, I might have melted into his arms, into the man I’d fallen in love with in those early days. When he kissed me, rather than the blue eyed, brown-haired man I married, I imagined gray, steely eyes, so intense yet so warm. When we’d fallen into bed, I’d traced Paris’s face, pretending he had a scar that ran along his jaw, his mouth, along his nose…

Then I had pulled away and coaxed him into drinking the rest of the whiskey he keeps on his side of the dresser. He hadn’t questioned it, and it hadn’t been long before he’d passed out.

I know, deep in my heart, what I did was unkind, unfair. Yet if I had allowed him to continue, it would have felt forced and wrong and I would’ve cried and cried later, wondering where life went awry and

I take a deep breath as I slip out of bed and pull on sweatpants, a jacket, and my boots. It’s the middle of the night, still, after one in the morning, but I can’t sleep. Sleep has eluded me these last few days, since I’d broken Ward’s nose.

Paris hasn’t stirred, and I watch him for a moment. When he sleeps, he looks completely harmless, almost kind. He’s got that handsome, charming face you’d do anything for. Before I think better of it, I touch his head softly, brushing my fingers through his brown hair. It’s so soft, getting long. He’ll most likely cut it again soon.

I freeze as he turns his head against my hand, nuzzling my fingers sleepily. My gut clenches, pulse quickening, from the simple, unconscious gesture.

Like a coward, I bolt, hurrying out of our room as quietly as possible. The guards on patrol have just passed our room, and I dart in the opposite direction, weaving through the corridors and jumping over the steps to descend the stairs faster. I’ve mastered the art of invisibility, of total silence. I’m agile, yet only the whisper of air follows me. I’m grateful for these sound-muffling boots, as heavy as they are.

I’m not sure where I’m going until I find Surveillance. Private Peterson’s the one on duty. He’s not as observant as he should be, and when I ease open the door with Paris’s clearance keycard, I can hear the soldier snoring in front of the many screens that show various areas of the base.

My boots don’t make a sound as I tiptoe past him to get one of the charging transceivers. The moment I pick one up, it beeps as it’s disconnected. I freeze and my eyes dart over to Peterson. He snorts a few times before he settles, and my pounding heart is nearly ready to explode from my chest.

I breathe easily once I’ve left and made my way up to the roof. The soldiers patrol up there as well, but there’s a spot overlooking the ocean that’s hidden - my favorite spot. It’s a vent that’s out of commission, stripped of its fan. Once I’ve nestled inside, my back against one side, I turn on the transceiver and type in a certain room key.

I wait and wait, wondering if I’m being foolish. Surely no one but patrol is awake I shouldn’t have done this I’m being stupid, stupid, stupid

I hear a click, and then

“Leila?” He doesn’t sound tired, his voice not raspy like someone who’s just woken up.

“How did you know it was me?” I respond, almost in a whisper.

There’s a soft laugh. “Had a hunch.”

“Did I wake you?” If so, I’ll hang up and go back to my room, forget this stupid little fantasy I’ve been carrying around in my head-

“Nah, I couldn’t sleep. I was cleaning my rifle.” A pause. “Are you okay?”

I swallow. Am I okay? Physically, yes. I’m not ill, I’ve no serious injuries, Paris hasn’t hurt me lately.

“No,” I answer, voice cracking a bit in that humiliating way.

There’s an even longer pause this time, so long I think he’s hung up, but then,

“What’s wrong, love?”

And I absolutely lose it. I’m sobbing into the transceiver, hoping the patrolling soldiers don’t hear me. I’m telling Ward about Paris and his fake affection and his affair and the changing world and my crippling feeling of helplessness as everything around us slowly turns to ash and I can’t stop until it’s all out and then I say, “I need you.”

Then I’m on my feet, hurrying down from the roof, taking the stairs two at a time. I don’t know why I said all of those things, but my face is hot with shame, and if Ward wanted to say anything else I won’t know it. I’ve switched off the transceiver, too embarrassed to hear his possible disgust and rejection.

I freeze at the top of the next set of stairs. Ward is at the bottom, and he’s staring up at me, panting softly. He’s wearing a simple gray tank and his uniform pants. It looks as if he’s been running and out of breath like me.

We stare at each other, neither of us closing the distance. It was so much easier to say what I felt over the transceiver. I didn’t have to see his face, didn’t have to know by his body language if my words were silly, unwanted. Now he’s here, and my tongue feels thick and heavy in my mouth. I swallow at the lump in my throat, wishing I could take it all back. Tell him he doesn’t owe me anything. He doesn’t owe me his time, his feelings- I’ve been taking up too much space in his busy schedule lately.

His nose is black and blue, along with his eyes. It looks worse now that it’s healing, more so than when I first injured him.

I take a step down, toward him, and then another. He doesn’t move, merely watches me as I get closer and closer. When I’m nearly to him, I feel tears in my eyes and we seem to come together at the same time. I collapse into his chest and hold onto him as I feel his strong arms come around me. My face presses to his neck, and neither of us says a word as we hold one another like the world might end if we let go even a little.

Ward smells comforting and warm, like honey and vanilla. I’m so lost in his strength, safe and utterly content, that I don’t realize he’s carrying me until I hear the whoosh and clank of a door opening and shutting.

I lift my head and look around. We must be in his room. It’s small, and there’s not a piece of clutter anywhere. His bed is still made, and the only thing slightly out of place is a rifle that’s been separated into its different parts and sits on his desk. There’s no bunk, and so I assume he doesn’t have to share this space with anyone else. I’m secretly glad for it.

He sets me on his bed, gentle and slow, and then he climbs in after, stretching out beside me. I turn on my side to face him, and that’s how we stay. Our gazes never stray, a word doesn’t pass between us. Only our soft breathing fills the near-silence.

After awhile, I reach out and trace the scar along his jaw. He’s beautiful in a way Paris is not- he doesn’t have the smooth, deceptive charm of my husband. Rather, there’s a toughness, an edge to him that’s softened by his eyes. His expression is so open, so raw, I don’t have to doubt his intentions. With Paris, his smile could mean anything. With Ward, the slight furrow in his brow means everything.

“Did he hurt you?” He whispers at last.

I shake my head the slightest bit, and the tension seems to leave him. “You shouldn’t care so much for me. I’m not worth it. I’m not worth you getting hurt or dying.” That hurts to say, but it’s the truth.

Now it’s Ward’s turn to shake his head. “You, Leila Warner, are everything that I’d die for.”


End file.
